the Third Secret

guarantee that she’d do as he asked. Regardless, she didn’t like the fact that the cardinal had apparently concluded himself clever in reading her.

True, she was almost out of the money accumulated from freelancing in the United States and tired of sponging off Tom Kealy, who seemed to enjoy that she was dependent on him. He’d done well with his three books, and soon he was going to be doing even better. He liked that he was America’s newest religious personality. He was addicted to the attention, which was understandable to a point, but she knew sides of Tom Kealy that his followers never saw. Emotions could not be posted on a website or slipped into a publicity memo. The truly skilled could convey them in words, but Kealy was not a good writer. All three of his books were ghostwritten—one of those things only she and his publisher knew, and not something Kealy would want revealed. The man was simply not real. Just an illusion that a few million people—himself among them—had accepted.

So different from Michener.

She hated being bitter yesterday. She’d told herself before arriving in Rome that if their paths crossed, she should watch what she said. After all, a lot of time had passed—they’d both moved on. But when she saw him in the tribunal she realized that he’d left an indelible mark on her emotions, one she was afraid to admit existed, one that churned resentment with the speed of a nuclear reaction.

Last night, while Kealy slept beside her, she’d wondered if her own tortuous path over the past dozen years was nothing but a prelude to this moment. Her career was anything but a success, her personal life dismal, yet here she was waiting for the second most powerful man in the Catholic Church to call and give her a chance to deceive someone she still cared a great deal about.

Earlier, she’d made a few inquiries to contacts in the Italian press and learned that Valendrea was a complex man. He was born to money in one of Italy’s oldest patrician families. At least two popes and five cardinals were in his bloodline, and uncles and brothers were involved in either Italian politics or international business. The Valendrea clan was also heavily entrenched in the European arts, and owned palaces and grand estates. They’d been careful with Mussolini and even more so with the revolving-door Italian regimes that followed. Their industry and money had been, and still were, courted, and they were choosy about who and what they supported.

The Vatican’s Annuario Pontifico noted that Valendrea was sixty years old and held degrees from the University of Florence, the Catholic University of the Sacred Heart, and the Hague Academy of International Law. He was the author of fourteen treatises. His lifestyle required well more than the three thousand euros a month the Church paid its princes. And though the Vatican frowned on cardinals being involved in secular activities, Valendrea was noted as a stockholder in several Italian conglomerates and served on many boards of directors. His relative youth was deemed an asset, as were his innate political abilities and dominating personality. He’d used his post as secretary of state wisely, becoming well known in the Western media. He was a man who recognized the propensities of modern communication and the need to convey a consistent public image. He was also a theological hard-liner who openly opposed Vatican II, a fact made clear during Kealy’s tribunal, and was one of the strict traditionalists who felt the Church was best served as it was once served.

Nearly all of the people she’d spoken with concurred that Valendrea was the front-runner to succeed Clement. Not necessarily because he was ideal for the job, but because there was no one strong enough to challenge him. By all accounts he was poised and ready for the next conclave.

But he’d also been a front-runner three years ago and lost.

The phone jarred her from her thoughts.

Her gaze darted to the receiver and she fought the urge to answer, preferring to let Valendrea, if indeed the caller was him, sweat a little.

After the sixth ring she lifted the handset.

“Making me wait?” Valendrea said.

“No more than I’ve been.”

A chuckle came through the earpiece. “I like you, Ms. Lew. You have personality. So tell me, what is your decision?”

“As if you have to ask.”

“I thought I’d be courteous.”

“You don’t impress me as someone who cares about such details.”

“You don’t have much respect for a cardinal of the Catholic Church.”

“You put your clothes on every morning like everybody else.”

“I sense you’re not a religious woman.”

It was her time to laugh. “Don’t tell me you actually convert souls in between politicking.”

“I really did choose wisely in you. You and I will get along well.”

“What makes you think I’m not taping all this?”

“And miss the opportunity of a lifetime? I seriously doubt that. Not to mention a chance to be with the good Father Michener. All at my expense, no less. Who could ask for more?”

His irritating attitude wasn’t much different from Tom Kealy’s. She wondered what it was about her that attracted such cocksure personalities. “When do I leave?”

“The papal secretary flies out tomorrow morning, arriving in Bucharest by lunch. I thought you might leave this evening and stay ahead of him.”

“And where am I to go?”

“Father Michener is going to see a priest named Andrej Tibor. He’s retired and works at an orphanage about forty miles to the north of Bucharest, in the village of Zlatna. Perhaps you know the place?”

“I know of it.”

“Then you’ll have no trouble learning what Michener does and says while there. Also, Michener is carrying some sort of papal letter. Getting a look at its contents would further increase your stock in my eyes.”

“You don’t want much, do you?”

“You are a resourceful woman. I suggest using those same charms Tom Kealy apparently enjoys. Surely then your mission will be a complete success.”

And the line went dead.

THIRTEEN

VATICAN CITY, 5:30 P.M.

Valendrea stood at the window in his third-floor office. Outside, the tall cedars, stone pines, and cypresses in the Vatican gardens stubbornly clung to summer. Since the thirteenth century popes had strolled the brick paths lined with laurel and myrtle, finding comfort in the classical sculptures, busts, and bronze reliefs.

He recalled a time when he’d enjoyed the gardens. Fresh from the seminary, posted to the only place in the world where he wanted to serve. Then, the walkways were filled with young priests wondering about their future. He came from an era when Italians dominated the papacy. But Vatican II changed all that, and Clement XV was retreating even farther. Every day another list of orders shuffling priests, bishops, and cardinals filtered down from the fourth floor. More Westerners, Africans, and Asians were being summoned to Rome. He’d tried to delay any implementation, hoping Clement would finally die, but eventually he’d had no choice but comply with every instruction.

The Italians were already outnumbered in the College of Cardinals, Paul VI perhaps the last of their breed. Valendrea had known the cardinal of Milan, fortunate to be in Rome for the last few years of Paul’s pontificate. By 1983 Valendrea was an archbishop. John Paul II finally bestowed him his red biretta, surely a way for the Pole to endear himself with the locals.

But maybe it was something more?

Valendrea’s conservative lean was legendary, as was his reputation as a diligent worker. John Paul appointed him prefect over the Congregation for the Evangelization of Peoples. There, he’d coordinated worldwide missionary activities, supervised the building of churches, delineated diocese boundaries, and educated catechists and clergy. The job had involved him in every aspect of the Church and allowed him to quietly build a power base among men who might one day be cardinals. He never forgot what his father had taught him. A favor offered is a favor returned.